Franck went off to put on a clean shirt and Valou clapped her hands at the very mention of the word Calvi, which was synonymous with shopping streets crowded with tourists, the marina with its parade of yachts, its beaches crammed with towels. Watching Valou run off into the bungalow to slip into a tight dress, redo her hair in order to reveal her forehead, the back of her neck and her bronzed shoulders, and change into delicate sandals of braided, silvery leather, beaming at the idea of finding civilisation again, and not just any civilisation, but the tanned and wealthy civilisation that fascinated her, Clotilde couldn’t help wondering where it had all gone wrong between them.

She and Valentine had been thick as thieves until Valentine turned ten. A dreamy little princess daughter and her crazy mother. Just as she had promised herself they would be.

Silly games, wild laughter, shared secrets.

She had sworn never to become a bitter mother, a mother who extinguished dreams, a mother who saw the world in black and white. And yet everything had become messed up without her even being aware of it. She’d been looking in the wrong direction. Clotilde had been expecting a rebellious teenager, as she had once been; she had prepared for that without losing any of her own values, any of her dreams. By staying the same person she always was.

How wrong could she have been!

So now here she was with a well-behaved, modern, adolescent girl who saw her as an outmoded old thing with the ideals of a different age. Now, her crazy mother left her indifferent at best, ashamed at worst.

Valou had found a fringed emerald-green handbag that matched her skirt, and was waiting by the Passat. Franck was already at the wheel.

‘Are you ready to go, Maman?’

No answer.

An impatient teenage voice. Used to it, but still impatient.

‘Maman! Come on, let’s go!’

Clotilde came out of the bungalow.

‘Franck, did you pick up my papers?’

‘I haven’t touched them.’

‘They’re not in the safe.’

‘I haven’t touched them,’ Franck said again. ‘Are you sure you haven’t put them somewhere else?’

OK, Clotilde thought, I may be the silly brainless fool of the family, but I haven’t lost it completely.

‘Yes, I’m sure!’

Clotilde very clearly remembered putting her wallet in the little safe built into the cupboard by the front door before taking a shower.

Franck pushed his sunglasses back onto his forehead, and tapped nervously on the wheel, clearly inches away from honking the horn.

‘If they’re not there,’ he snapped, ‘you must have …’

‘I put them in the bloody safe last night and I haven’t opened it since then!’

In a fit of irritation, Clotilde went back inside, hoisted her suitcase on to the bed and began to rummage through her things.

Not a sign.